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Introduction
The Xevarin, singularly Xevar, are a species of netherborn originating from the nether variant which they call Xokror. They are a humanoid species that do not seem to share any close genetic relationships with any others of nether, overworld, or end origin.
Biology
Like other humanoid species, the Xevarin are made up of two legs, two arms, a torso, a head, hands, and feet. If given sufficient concealment, in fact, a Xevar could conceivable disguise themself as a human should they desire. The difficulty comes in the details.
Aka: I started rambling to my rp discord about Teithor's life and ended up with some of a nice biography, in my opinion. Prepare for quite a ride. And worldbuilding. Expect part 2.....sometime.
CW: very brief implied attempted child sacrifice, death, bad coping mechanisms, violence, fantasy bigotry, captivity.
Other things to note: this is approximately two and a bit stories condensed into one post so it's long, the names of Teithor used in these parts of their life are Kasti and Alagos, yes Teithor's parents are polyam, I - and headspace Teithor - are delighted to answer any questions.
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More than a thousand years before today and sixteen after their elder sibling, a second child was hatched to Birast Drauna and Alian Drauna of Clan Morevel. This hatchling was named for the gleam in their dark eyes: Kasti, the Bright. Those eyes were unexpected in their shade, but it was of no matter; Alian and Birast knew each other's loyalties and latent features were not unheard of.
Kasti grew quicker than their agemates for a time, bold and brash and seemingly knowing no concept of shame. They commanded attention with a ringing voice and an ever-present grin, enough strength in their words without Intent to on one particular occasion convince their teacher to allow themself and their classmates to take recess early.
When Kasti was still a hatchling, just barely twelve years of age, they were playing in a tamed portion of the forest by Kruinbor - their home citadel - when they wandered off and came upon a strange silver tear in the fabric of the fog. Plagued and blessed with deep curiosity and too young for much sense, Kasti passed through the portal and found themself in a world that was sharp and green.
Unknowing of why they were shaking, Kasti continued their wandering, exploring the area surrounding that silver sliver until they were found by a group dressed in face-concealing robes. These robed people spoke in words that Kasti could not understand and carried them to a fire, for which Kasti was grateful.
Within the fire resided a being of power and flame who called itself Viknas. To Kasti, its mind felt like the heat of the lava oceans and the shifting of Birast's broad shoulders when it spoke in feelings and concepts. Kasti responded with a shining enthusiasm and curiosity that took Viknas off guard within its rage at the robed ones attempting to sacrifice the child to it through the fire. And as the rage subsided, its effects having scorched the clearing to cinders, Kasti's mind flashed with something overwhelming and new before Viknas could reel its power fully back in.
When Kasti awoke, they lay in a hammock of warped vines, a Presence hovering nearby that wrapped around them like a weighted blanket and lulled them back to sleep.
As far as Kasti knew when they were returned to the edge of their previous playground, they had simply wandered farther into the forest and fell asleep. Birast and Alian rightfully assumed that the Warped Forest Core - one of their gods - was involved, but just like their child had no way to guess what had actually transpired. Kasti's life went on as normal.
In the next several years, Kasti found a love of many tasks: alchemy, music, smithing, combat, textiles and sewing, and writing. They bounced from one to another without any clear connection, going from project to project to project with varying degrees of success but unlimited passion and delight. Despite other things that took their fancy, they always came back to the same handful of interests.
But as adolescence loomed on the horizon, sometime during Kasti's thirty-fifth year, a tragedy struck that changed the path of Kasti's lifestream.
While gathering ingredients on the edge of a soulsand valley, Kasti slipped and fell farther than they could climb back up, their grappling hook and ingredient satchel left on the ledge where they had been before. Tales abounded of the dangers and horrors of soulsand valleys, all of which flooded Kasti's mind as they searched frantically for a way back up to safety. But all their searching was in vain, for behind them from the grasping soil rose a skeleton archer, its eyes agleam with a glow like soulfire.
Kasti heard the rattling of the bones and the creak of the drawstring, turned, then started to run in terror in the direction they happened to be facing, only wishing to find some shelter from the arrows they knew were coming. They tripped. An arrow loosed. And the soulsand drank greedily of the black blood that flowed.
But instead of finding themself in the quiet of the Great Library where the Keeper of the Dead would guide them further to their soul's resting place, Kasti awoke. In their bed. In their home. To the sound of their younger brother singing at the top of his lungs in the kitchen.
Kasti laid there for several moments, remembering how to breathe, before they sat up slowly, one hand going to where they knew the arrow had pierced their spine. At first they thought there was nothing; it had been a nightmare, it was morning still, they had yet to go out at all. Until their fingers found a small scar directly in the middle of the back of their neck. Until their eyes focused on the empty place where their grappling hook normally hung. And Kasti screamed.
When their younger brother arrived at their door, Kasti was curled up in the corner of their room with one hand clamped firmly on the back of their neck, eyes glazed with panic. He promptly decided it wasn't something he could help with and ran to find one or both of their parents or at least their parents' new lover.
Alian was the first to arrive, pushing Kasti's bedroom door open gently and kneeling in front of them with kind words laced with an Intent of Calming. Kasti slowly unbunched themself and after a tight embrace long enough that Birast was able to join too, they shakily told what happened. How well their ingredient-gathering had been going, the slip, the fall that miraculously broke no bones, and…the skeleton.
None of them knew what to do, so the logical course of action was to take the happenings to the Head of Clan Morevel, an old scholar named Arist'. Arist' took the three of them to the deepest parts of Kruinbor's archives and to a book that spoke of a type of being called a Worldwalker, a being who could return from the dead and travel the fabric of the universe, carrying even armies with it. Kasti had heard of Worldwalkers before, had heard the stories of Nekhadis Kymakhmora of the now-dead Clan Aleri who had brought destruction and death to so many at that time. And now…Kasti was revealed to be just the same.
They withdrew in fear of themself and how others would react, losing their friends in the process. They poured themself into their hobbies, growing visibly in skill but plummeting in the quality of work they turned in for classes. And when they weren't working on some project, they dove into those ancient archives to learn all they could about Worldwalkers and try to find a way to not be one anymore.
When the time came to prepare for their Journey Trial, Kasti threw themself into that with an almost fevered fervour. They'd learnt that there was no known way to stop being a Worldwalker, but perhaps the Warped Forest Core would have a way. And the Journey Trial was the easiest way for them to meet that god. And yet, for all of their preparation, on their seventy-second birthday, the day they were to take that Trial, they had yet to decide their adult name. For all that it was highly important, choosing the name they'd use for likely the whole of their adult life had seemed like a small thing compared to the potential of becoming an ordinary Xevar again, one who wasn't cursed to forever be undead.
They returned from their Journey Trial a week late with a new outlook and a decided name: Alagos, the Chosen. They would never be able to not be a Worldwalker, but they had learnt many things in the time they'd been gone. While those decades of fear and self-imposed solitude were not gone, Alagos' discussion with the Warped Forest Core - and another god that had coincidentally been visiting the Core at the same time - had convinced them that it wasn't something to be ashamed about.
Alagos spent a few more years with their parents, deciding if staying in Kruinbor was really what they wanted to do, before trekking back into the depths of the forest once again with no plans of return. Not for a long time, at least. And after another - much shorter - discussion with the Core, a silver sliver tore through the air in the clearing where Alagos stood.
Sharp air and surrounding green once again filled Alagos' senses, though they didn't know it was the second time they'd ever left their home. Bright light that they couldn't name stung their eyes, a wealth of sounds and smells entirely new flooding their conciousness. They sat down heavily, vaguely aware that what they sat under was a tree, and tried to isolate each sense so they could adjust.
A voice cut through the havoc, a woman speaking words that Alagos couldn't comprehend. But her tone was gentle and when she knelt in front of them her eyes were kind. She offered them a shawl to shield them from the cold and the brightness; they accepted gratefully, unaware of the awe and befuddlement that also traced her face at their inhuman features.
Through miming and slow mimicry, Alagos learnt that the woman's name was Abilene and she was the herd of the strange fluffy white animals grazing nearby. As the brightness began to dim and the blue ceiling was painted with colours, Abilene rounded up her animals and the only-hip-height netrana without tusks or a mane that Abilene called Gilbert. Together they all went to Abilene's house, Alagos still wrapped up in her shawl.
There they met her family; her parents and her brother Peter and their tiny orange stripy korr named Holfast. Abilene spoke quickly with her family while Alagos stood off to one side near the fire, only listening with half an ear. After that conversation Abilene gave Alagos a bowl of some kind of meaty soup and they all ate together. That night, Alagos slept by the fire, preferring the hard floor and the heat to the offered softer bed that was also colder.
The next long while, Alagos followed Abilene around as she did her everyday tasks, learning bright-eyed and curious. The syllables of Abilene's language were strange on their tongue but with stumbling infinite tries it slowly became steady as basalt in their mind. But they learnt so much more than language. They learnt the blue ceiling was a 'sky', not a ceiling at all, they learnt about seasons and shepherding and shearing...and of water.
About five days after Alagos' arrival to Abilene's world, in the morning before the time to feed the sheep, it rained. Curious about what the sound was, Alagos opened the door and stuck their hand outside only to yank it back immediately with a pained cry. Where the little droplets had hit, their skin sizzled and hurt in a way that they'd never known before.
Abilene's brother Peter had been the only other person in the main room when this happened. He did his best to help them, but water burns weren't something anyone there had experienced before. Eventually Alagos' hand healed, but even after the scars faded they found themself tracing the spots where the rain had first fallen.
After about seven years of living as a shepherd with Abilene, Alagos was noticed by a travelling merchant in the moment that they knocked out a man who'd picked a fight with them. It took some convincing, but shortly Alagos had a new job as a guard in the merchant's caravan and was able to put to use the sword and armour they'd brought from their home. The look on Abilene's face when Alagos stepped out of the barn armed and armoured was one that Alagos would savor for quite some time before even realising why they were savoring it.
Alagos spent the next two decades as a guard for that merchant caravan, bringing gifts for Abilene every time they passed through her village. During that time Abilene fell in love with and married one of the local carpenters, so when Alagos found out they started bringing gifts for her wife too. And when the merchant retired, Alagos returned to the village and became a rather odd auncle to Abilene and her wife's kids.
When Abilene and her wife eventually fell to old age, Alagos once again took up the job of a caravan guard for a few years until that merchant retired. Then they settled in a decent-sized border town as an assistant alchemist, using the techniques they'd learnt back in Kruinbor and the new ones they learnt from their alchemy master together with sometimes quite interesting results. For a while, there was peace, and like they had been before Abilene's death, Alagos was happy.
Unfortunately, the peace was not to last. The king of a neighboring country decided he wanted to go to war with Abilene's home country, the one Alagos was living in. He started this by attacking the border town that Alagos now called home. The soldiers killed many, but captured Alagos instead after how fiercely they fought to defend their new friends.
They and some other captives were taken to a camp of sorts where they were kept until a group of people came through and took them away one by one. Alagos was taken by a tall, bald woman who they never learnt the name of on a three-day ride to a city with rust-red stone walls and a massive amphitheatre. It was to this amphitheatre they went, with the bald woman shackling them and the few others she'd brought to a wall soon after arriving. She returned several moments after, followed by a man in fine clothes and with a beard dyed with strips of crimson on each side.
The finely-dressed man, Alagos discovered, was named Ixar. They knew the language that he and the bald woman spoke, but in a brief moment of wisdom decided to pretend as if they didn't. In this way, they learnt that they were slated for the arena as a pit dog for their ferocity. It took all of Alagos' self-control to keep their temper with the comments that Ixar and the bald woman made about Alagos' inhuman traits. Meanwhile, they thought of a plan.
Since they couldn't just escape, they would just...not sleep until they could get killed in the arena and in that way be sent back to the border town or perhaps even the pasture that had been Abilene's. Yet that plan was not to succeed, for they fell asleep from exhaustion no more than a few hours later, and so they were well and truly trapped.
A silver sliver slices through the air. An ink-haired figure steps out. They find a place to settle, trying to ignore the looks they get for their claws, their tail, their blue-abyss eyes, their teeth. They avoid the rain, remembering ever that first time before they knew it would set their skin to sizzling. Their pace carries a feline grace, their gaze a serpentine seeking. A twisting dark tattoo paints their face opposite scars with the spacing of fingers, crow’s feet and laugh lines creasing with every fanged smile.
Bubbling cauldrons, clanging hammers, and the quiet click of needle-on-claw make the ensemble for their song, their own voice both melody and harmony when they wish. Magic that is not magic weaves through soundwaves like embroidery floss through fabric, emotions and power made tangible as breath. Deft hands manipulate ingredients, strong arms pound metal into shape. Quick steps dance around an opponent as if life and death are merely a game, black-bladed sabres gleaming in flame.
The stranger kneads a tale as if it were dough, coaxing feeling from the very air itself. Their cadence is a beating-heart drum, solid and steady, their pitchless notes punctuated by the strings of a dark-timbred harp. Joy, sorrow, victory, grief…the stranger has many stories to tell, folktales that seem too close to their heart to be anything but their truths. And yet within the space between a shroomlight’s spores every telling rests as if it were legend, even when the name they do not mention can only be their own. Some of these stories become songs: haunting, keening things that slice the night and drip like honey or blood through firelit comfort.
Someone approaches them, warm with drink and drawn to the mystery and the crooked smile. The tips of the stranger’s ears and heights of their cheekbones flush shadowy as if painted with soot. The person tries to touch their hair and is met with a warning snarl. The person does not learn of the muscle and scars that lie beneath skilfully self-sewn tunics, nor of the golden pendant that rests against inhumanly-warm skin. Another approaches, warned by observation, and does not try to take what isn’t offered.
Silent steps in flexible boots pad the streets, a gait swaying and smooth. Broad shoulders set low, old confidence and older insecurity ever-battling. A softness sometimes hidden but never too far from sight. Restrained and refined, tempered with an ever-youthful enthusiasm and shameless care. Those to whom the stranger becomes familiar learn the signs, the tap-tap-tap of the tail in distress, the barely-disguised bouncing in delight, the affection growing quick as a child or slow as a mountain. Those who earn disfavour see only a selection of masks with a variety of sincerities. Those who earn hate see in time only blood.
A fragment of Teithor's childhood, before they knew they were a Worldwalker.
Feat. Kasti is Teithor and it's not a pre-transition situation. Another note is that it's a cultural thing as to why all children featured in this story use rei/reis pronouns. (I'd be delighted to do a post on Xevarin and gender if there's interest.)
[CW: none]
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Giggles trickled through the undergrowth, foliage of all shades and tints of cyan and purple rustling in the wake of a small pack of children, sneaking as best they could along the side of the path. Each one held a small basket in their tail-tendrils, leaving their hands free to move branches and grab at each other giddily.
The one at the head of the group stopped, holding up a hand in a mimic of all hunting-pack leaders in reis favourite plays. A few of the other kids bumped into each other in the process, but they all stopped too. One of the taller ones stood up a little more to see why their leader stopped.
"Kasti?"
"Shhh." Kasti crouched closer to the ground until rei was almost on all fours, ears swiveling to listen. Reis eyes narrowed with focus as rei crept forward slowly, tail holding reis basket closer to reis body. "There's a herd of krytsi."
In the clearing just a head of the little group, a massive creature grazed peacefully. Its antlers glimmered with bioluminescence as it stepped daintily throughout the clearing, its long forked tail swishing back and forth without a care in the world. On the other side of the kryts, a handful of fauns and two other adults grazed just as placidly.
Kasti shrunk back farther into the underbrush, pushing reis followers back too as a fourth kryts with a gleaming hood behind its antlers pranced into the clearing from the left. It paused to nuzzle each of the hoodless krytsi in turn, followed by the fauns, before it began a leisurely circuit around the herd, dark eyes fixed on the surrounding forest.
Without turning around, Kasti reached for the closest of reis group and hastily signed 'go back' against that kid's shoulder or chest or whatever it was that Kasti's hand hit first. None of them wanted to risk being trampled by any of the krytsi, no matter how pretty the flowers on the edge of the clearing were. They'd just need to find somewhere else to get the flowers to give to their teacher for his hatchingday.
Kasti's sign passed down the line of children quickly, and just as quickly and stealthily as they could the group sneaked back the way they came until they were hopefully out of earshot of the krytsi. When they were, Kasti had them stop again around a random fallen violet-trunked tree.
"Any suggestions?" Rei hopped up nimbly onto the tree trunk itself to sit, plopping reis flower basket onto reis lap.
The smallest and youngest of the group spoke up, fiddling with a loose fibre on reis own basket. "We could go to the temple garden and get some of the flowers growing over the fence that the priests don't get."
Kasti drummed reis claws against the bark of the tree. "We do know Mister Druvir really likes the arana'i that grow around the temple...anybody else?"
The group discussed among themselves for a few minutes before deciding to just go to the temple; it was easier than trying to come up with any other ideas. Once again Kasti led the way, making a game out of sneaking through the forest and then through the citadel once they were through the nearest gate.
At the temple, one of the priests was outside trimming an ornamental bush by the door, so Kasti and reis little pack of flower-hunters waited as best they could behind an outcropping of netherrack until the priest went back inside. The moment the temple door closed, however, all pretenses of stealth flew down to the magma beaches. Each child went to a different spot in the outskirts of the temple garden, using their claws to carefully-as-they-could slice off at least a handful of flowers each.
And about half an hour later, the little group was back by the entrance to the school tunnels, a massive bouquet made of all of the flowers they'd gathered arranged delicately in the largest flower basket they'd brought with them. By group vote they delegated the tallest of them to actually give the flowers to Mister Druvir, and that tallest child stood proud as Kasti led the way to their classroom.
Mister Druvir's hatchingday was going to be the best ever, they were sure of it!
A folklore-style telling of the origin of the Veiled One, a god that appears multiple times in Teithor's lifespan. This has already been posted on AO3 for a while but I felt like putting it here too.
The end contains an important author's note that shortly after I post this I'll be adding to my masterlist/pinned post.
[CW: none as far as I'm aware]
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This is how it begins; the Deity of History and Keeper of the Dead creates an offspring made of gold, shadows, and nameless potential. This is how it ends; a lineage sears a glowing-hot shade into the universe.
The problem, you see, with nameless potential is that it has no direction. And the Deity of History deals with the stories of past and present, not future. But newborn gods are different from newborn mortals. Always is there something right at the start that a new deity knows of itself. This new nameless god? Knew the moment its coal-abyss eyes blinked that it was a dragon. Barely knew what a dragon was - for everyone must learn things, even the knowledge gods - but it knew its own shape.
So the vaugely-humanoid construction of gold and darkness grew new features. Great leathery wings to carry it when it wished not to walk, their reach enough to fill a room. Teeth like a beast of prey to adorn its grin. Horns, ringed at the base with crowns of crystal. A spear-tipped tail to balance it in flight and assist when its hands were full. And claws, sharp and sturdy, as much both tools and weapons as a knife.
The Deity of History and Keeper of the Dead smiled upon Her offspring, but did not give it a name. That was for it to decide, she said, as was what kind of god it would become. And this new dragon god of black and gold accepted Her judgement with a fanged grin.
For a time the nameless god served as a helper in the Great Library; inscribing histories, guiding souls through the lobby to the Realms of the Dead, and whatever other task was needed that it could perform. It could not ferry souls, being neither a Reaper nor any of the other kinds of deific beings with that ability. Death was not of its domain.
There were too many options to pick from everyone, so the nameless god instead randomly drew a domain adjacent to one of those under the stewardship of its Mother. Away it went then, to the realm of some other gods.
For what could be considered nigh on twelve millennia, the nameless god explored and experimented with coupled domains of Justice and Vengeance. And it was with these two that the nameless god first gained a name, for the swatch of sheer black fabric it hung by its horns, concealing its mind-bending face and for the whispering shadows that sometimes trailed at its heels and wings.
The Veiled One with Justice and the Blackmist Beast with Vengeance. For a time the no-longer-nameless god was comfortable, but neither of those domains felt…right. Both were close and yet neither were correct. The time had come for another random draw.
Not many failures were left before the Veiled One found the three parts of what it was looking for. It had learnt of many things in its time: Love, Home and Hearth, Desire, Power…but nothing felt as right as Protection and the duo of Oaths and Bargains. And into these three aspects the Veiled One settled with the gravitas and ease of an elected monarch upon their well-worn throne.
Every bargain became a new voice to the choir that manifested in sparks about its head and shoulders, in speckles of gold in the membranes of its wings. Every oath a binding connecting in an infinite web of words and intentions spanning the universe. It became a monster of darkness to the cruel and an enveloping shadow of light to the endangered. The lessons it learnt, was taught by the other gods, stayed in its heart sure as that gilt-metal thing drummed out its every beat.
And the once-nameless god gained so many names it would fill a book to count them all. And the directionless potential gained a purpose. And so a dragon of gold and darkness became truly a god.
But then…then the Veiled One grew tired. Even gold tarnishes. Even shadows fade. But divinity of this nature, divinity made by Death, is not something that likes to fade. So the Veiled One returned to its Mother, seeking answers and a respite from its weariness.
She told it to go among the mortals. To find one who’s fleshy mortal heart beat with the same cadence as its own, who’s fragile mortal mind was of one thought with it. She told it to bring her to the mortal when it found them.
The Veiled One was and is always a good child of its Mother. For another three millennia it searched, finding in time a mortal with whom it grew very close. As its Mother had predicted, the mortal’s heart and its own beat as one. Protection, Oaths, and Bargains. Justice, Vengeance. Love, Desire, Hearth and Home. The mortal is the one to suggest what might have been its Mother’s original thought for this quest.
A succession. A divine lineage, freeing it from the unending cycle of true immortality so long as there is someone to pass the mantle on to. Ordinary mortals, Augmented mortals, it does not matter. If the heart beats with the same cadence and the mind thinks with the same thought, the potential is there.
When next someone summoned The Veiled One, god of Protection, Oaths, and Bargains, the black and gold wings were patterned with green and the horns were that of a Jacob’s sheep. The face and form beneath the draconic features, the voice beneath the million harmonies of the Soulchoir, the new memories added upon the old? Those belonged to Tori, the formerly-mortal man who now wore the mantle and who now would only hear his name should he himself tell it to another.
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A note: any resemblance regarding other mcyt/mcyt-adjacent lore is not by design; I'm aware there are similarities, but I try very hard to keep my stuff not looking like a copy or reference of other mcyt lore.
A not-so-young netherborn spends some time in the End, dealing with trauma. Takes place during the yet-to-be-added section of Teithor's biography Birth of the Wraith.
Feat. some small Enderman culture headcanons! Also I free-wrote this and it has a happy ending.
[CW: references to death, depression]
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Time did not pass in the endless dark of the void-skied End. As such, they had no way of knowing how long it had been since they were brought here. And honestly? They didn't really care. Their mind was just as dark as the sky lately.
They ate and slept at the insistence of their hosts, but they found neither rest nor flavour. Their skin ever-prickled with the chill of the air, but they didn't dare to long for the heat of their home. Their home was gone. Razed to the ground. The fortress-dwellers had paid for the assault with their lives, but that only added to the guilt that burdened the lonely wanderer's shoulders.
The first several cycles of sleep and wakefulness were raucous with silence, every attempt of their hosts to communicate met with an empty stare. But Endermen are on a whole as patient as She Who Flies the Void and as stubborn as the obsidian that makes up the pillars that contain her duplicates. And the priests that were their hosts? The priests took those traits and magnified them twelve-fold. 'Twas their creed as the keepers of the waystation temples that dotted the islands. Patience, compassion, and a steadfast heart.
Slowly, slowly as the void turns, life returned truly to the midnight eyes of the lonely wanderer. Slowly silence slipped into soft sound, hesitant and reluctant. Slowly the priests learnt more than what the Jumper had observed when scooping up the lonely wanderer from the warped forest they were found in.
They wrote before they spoke, a language none of the priests could understand that over time became oddly-slanted Galactic. Mostly little poems, fragments of verse that ached with raw agony. Those became notes, small answers to questions the priests asked, little doodles of armour and gear, descriptions of people and events. Missing pieces of the puzzle that was the lonely wanderer started to fill in.
More time passed. Writing became quiet speech, whispered singing that haunted the halls of the temple just as the wanderer did. Their accent in Galactic was certainly strange, but progress and healing mattered so much more than such things small as accents. Questions gained more answers, the puzzle filled further.
One meal, one of the priests asked their guest their name. The wanderer just shook their head, ears drooping low and finger-tipped tail tapping a steady rhythm that the priests had learnt to be a sign of distress.
"Have you no name?"
Another head-shake, gaze cast down.
The priests muttered amongst themselves for a few moments before one of their younger members spoke.
"Do you wish a name?"
The wanderer looked up, eyes wide but not meeting those of the priests. Their mouth opened, closed. Opened again, closed again. They nodded. "...please?"
Priest looked at priest looked at priest. Who would name their guest? This quiet, withdrawn wanderer who'd felt more of a resurrection than the typical respawn of any worldwalker...
"Nairel." Three spoke at once. Nairel, for the whispers that had served as a turning point in what the priests were able to do for their pet worldwalker.
The wanderer hummed quietly, moving some food around on their plate. "...Nairel."
Several moments of silence passed.
Nairel hummed again and nodded, the faintest warbling trill sneaking from their lips. "So I be."
Because Teithor's from the nether and they have a prehensile tail....among other things, but those are the two features that led to that nickname. I don't remember who originally came up with it, but it wasn't me.
